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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414058">A Precarious Pursuit (for Peace of Body and Mind)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze'>Nordic_Breeze</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Nighttime Encounters [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bandits &amp; Outlaws, Cowboys &amp; Cowgirls, Eventual Smut, F/M, Implied/Referenced Dub-con, Medium Honor Arthur Morgan, Mild Smut, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Suspense, Unwanted Advances</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:54:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,449</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24414058</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordic_Breeze/pseuds/Nordic_Breeze</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>What one will not do when pining for repose and a good night sleep. </p><p>A dream of a dalliance tumultuous, erotic, and wild, prompted forth by a most eventful night with more 180 turns than a ride down eastside Mount Hagen has set her soul ablaze. A most vivid dream it was, filled with raw, conflicting emotions both apparent and repressed. </p><p>To appease her body and mind, she sets off to hunt down the root of this restless yearn, an endeavor that is neither wise nor safe but, as is both her blessing and her curse, she is not the type to be easily discouraged when it comes to pursue one's desire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Arthur Morgan/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Nighttime Encounters [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554115</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Manhunt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is part 3 of a series of mine called Nighttime Encounters. Chapter titles and summaries for part 1 and 2 below. </p><p>As part 2 ended with... eh, well, a lot to be desired, I always wanted to return to this series and give our unnamed heroine (and myself) some much-needed closure. My other wip 'A New Beginning' takes precedence as far as writing goes, but I assure you guys I have not forgotten about this series and here is a little taste of what is to come.</p><p>Tags will be added and the rating will be raised to E by chapter 3 or so.</p><p>Part 1: The Ambivalence of Moral Ambiguity.<br/><em>"She is a stranger forced to travel alone with prized goods. He is a stranger after that which forced her to travel. A chance interference by nature leads to one predator tackling the other, and the hunted becomes the huntress. Though the wild is not done with its meddling. The tables are turned yet again – literally and figuratively, and the huntress turns humble."</em></p><p>Part 2: A Tempest Night.<br/><em>"They meet again in the small hours, their mutual yearn as raging as the storm outside."</em></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is not yet night when our heroine and the virtuoso of vividly unfulfilling dreams dismounts her favorite farmstead steed outside a plain stone building by the muddy and polluted Lannahechee River, though due to the heavy clouds above and the resultant downpour, one might be fooled to think the hour is well past eventide. She enters the dimly lit, aptly named Old Light Saloon, sweeps the rain off her face and warily approaches the counter.</p><p>Though her head and posture is directed at the lady on the other side of the worktop busy serving assorted alcoholic beverages, her gaze sweeps the faces of the loud-mouthed patrons, all while taking care to never linger at any one in particular. She’s heard many a rumor pertaining to this grubby, old town and none of them good. Judging by the derelict state of the street outside and the gimlet side-glares here inside, she does not doubt any of them for a second. Best to do what she came here for and leave before she draws any unwanted attention.</p><p>“Excuse me, madam. I’m looking for someone, goes by the name Arthur... No, I don’t have a last name.” She goes on to describe his peculiars. And just like every other time, no one has neither seen nor heard of him. Or so they claim.</p><p>A beer bottle slams into the counter to her left. She startles but she does not turn. She knows this trick all too well.</p><p>“Yer lookin’ fer company?”</p><p>She didn’t think it could possibly smell any worse in here but that was before the pong of piss, horse shit, bile, and beer blended with the ambient stale air and stench of old sweat. Raised shoulders and a face painted by revolt does naught to discourage the inebriated patron by her side. With zero revere for the concept of personal space, he leans in close enough for his drool to land on her sleeve.</p><p>“No! I’m just here ‘cause I’m looking for someone,” she deflects with her eyes locked straight ahead, staring at nothing in particular. “And you ain’t him.”</p><p>Wretched mistake! By acknowledging his presence, she has taken the bait.</p><p>“<em>Ohh</em> I can <em>indeed</em> be him, miss.” He points at the bartender. “N’I can be him."</p><p>"That's a her," she responds in a flat tone.</p><p>"N’him’n him’n him’n him.” His arm is now hastily pointing at patron after patron at random before he pauses for another mouthful of beer, ensued by a hiccup whose odor reaches her nose before she has time to think of holding her breath. “I can be ‘andcuff Houdini, I can be Butch Cassidy, President Macalister, or whomever yer into, missy. I can even be Mark-bloody-Twain if ya like’em old.”</p><p>The level of disgust is now at a <em>straining-to-retain-spew</em> high. She shoves the highly unpleasant, meddlesome suitor away with all the strength her two arms can muster. He claws after her with a look in his eyes akin to that of a smallholder when the goose intended for plucking leaps free and flaps its wings in its assailants face. Had it not been for the bartender interfering, bless her soul, he would have surely succeeded in clutching a hold of her.</p><p>So much for not drawing unwanted attention.</p><p>Outside, she wastes no time mounting her steed and hurries towards the mining town in the north.</p><p>Two hours later, she reaches Annesburg, a place where the air is polluted by noise, dust, and smoke. In between train whistles, rumbling and chugging of locomotives and around-the-clock factories, not to mention suffocating smog, how anyone living here can get a moments rest is beyond her.</p><p>There isn’t much of a saloon to speak of in this century old mining town. Bie-rha-lle something or the other, its full name displayed above the entrance she won’t even attempt to pronounce. It’s more of a bar than a saloon really, recently reopened and yet, as word has it, still struggling for coin. The bartender eyes her as any man would a woman entering such an establishment unaccompanied – with a blend of wariness and curiosity as he tries to place her as bounty hunter, runaway looking for job or shelter, prostitute, grifter, or young maiden meeting her beau for a surreptitious tryst.</p><p><em>It’s not too late. I can still back out</em>.</p><p>“At your service, ma’ma,” he greets as she reaches the counter. From the way he’s looking at her, he has already ruled out any and all kinds of manhunting working girl – be it mercenaire or cocotte.</p><p>“Um, I’m looking for this fellar…”</p><p>“I ain’t servin’ fellers, miss. Just food’n drink.”</p><p>Not in the mood for flippancy or jesters, she pulls a coin from her pouch. “This feller, he’s a tall’n husky one. Kind of scary looking. Easily the deepest voice you’ll ever hear from here to Colorado River. Wears mostly black. At least from what I’ve seen.”</p><p>“Lots of fellers fit that description, ma’am. Just look around. Plenty’a’em here. And none worth anyone’s time, if ya ask me.”</p><p>She wasn’t.</p><p>She lets her gaze wander the establishment and its clientele. On each of the three tables nearby are two to five men, all of them more or less intoxicated. In the northeast corner, a group of men are betting their luck at a round of poker or ten. A handful patrons are leaning against the mantelpiece or lurking in the corners of the far end wall, with the ladies of the evening keenly fishing for their attention. With an interjection of lament, she is forced to concede. About half of the clientele falls within the particulars of her description and if one takes into account people do in fact change clothes, especially those who do not abide by the laws of this land, nearly nine out of ten do.</p><p>“Oh, but you’d notice this feller for sure,” she insists, not ready to give up so easily. “A chin as square as a dice with a real nasty scar straight across’n he speaks with a voice that sounds like he’s just had two shots of whiskey straight to assuage a sore throat three week strong.”</p><p>“Sorry, miss. That still ain’t helping. Can I get ya anythin’ to eat or drink?”</p><p>She walks out, disheartened. It’s the fourth saloon she’s visited and the first and only in this dismal town, which she had sworn to never return. The very town she had last seen him racing at breakneck speed guns blazing forth the greenery behind the sheriff’s office on a cantering steed, a gun in his hand, a black cloth over his nose, and a blue velvet purse in the hand holding the reins. A sight that would have surely etched into the minds of the people on the streets that day, as it had for her.</p><p>Another stop at the gunsmith proves equally fruitless. Silly lass. Why would he even think to return after shooting his way out of this very town less than a month before today. But alas, for all her visits and queries from Rhodes to van Horn via the hamlets of Emerald Ranch and Butcher’s Creek, no one has seen nor heard of a beefy, mean-looking feller with a raspy voice and in a black leather hat. None that wanted to tell, anyhow. Annesburg is her last, desperate try. Even if he hasn’t been here since that day, it was not the first time he was here. He has been here before, that much is sure.</p><p>She decides for one last stop before she heads back home. The guards over at the field of felled trees at the edge of town. They see everyone going in and out.</p><p>What is she even doing, hunting a man like him, a dangerous man, an outlaw nonetheless, following an acquaintance that had lasted not even two hours? Two eventful hours granted, but still.</p><p><em>Crazy, stupid girl. </em>Indulging in erotic reveries of a stranger about to rob her at gun point in the midst of the woods, imagining with a fluttering heart and carnal lust that he breaks into her home in the midst of the night to have his way with her. Even madder, going about looking for said stranger, including ill-reputed places, with naught for protection but a rusty, six-shot Cattleman. Yep, that is about as brilliant as sitting down with ones bare arse on top of a pismire’s nest, like her brother had done once when drunk out of his mind. According to the sounds from the outhouse, he could not take a shite without hollering his lungs out for over a week.</p><p>No, not just any stranger – him.</p><p>Perhaps it is the fact that he is dangerous what makes him so alluring. Perhaps it is his voice. At any rate, the vivid dream of his late-night visit has certainly given fire to her late-at-night reveries.</p><p>She is doing this for closure. Or at least, that is what she is telling herself.</p><p>Upon rounding a corner, she takes note of a shadow in her peripheral vision. A tinge of recognition stirs her chest. Is this the same who had been observing her at the Bierhalle, in that corner at the other side of the room? She’d paid no heed then but now she is sure it is the same person. Another long-eared patron inclined to offer his ‘company’? Her pace quickens. Come to think of it, hadn’t she seen someone with that posture and height leaning against a beam further down the street earlier?</p><p>Is it the troublesome patron from van Horn? Has he followed her all the way here?</p><p>She turns again. There is no one behind her. When there clearly should have been someone, there is no one. Nor is there anywhere he could have logically gone off to, like stores, residents or side alleys. She opens her mouth to shout for attention but the crippling fear of violence chokes the words in her throat. Whomever was trailing behind her is now in hiding, observing her. It is the time of the day when it’s the earliest of late and light changing from daylight to dusk. There are still people out but in fewer numbers, soon to be even fewer still. Is someone eyeing her, a woman wandering the streets all by herself, out as an easy target to rob or... worse?</p><p>She pivots on her heels and starts pacing to where she left her father’s steed and, as one tends to do when preoccupied with looking everywhere but where ones feet are, stumbles into a wooden lodge embedded in the ground, which sends her diving head-first towards the cold, mud-caked ground. As if this day couldn’t get any worse! Internally cursing her own carelessness, she staggers to her feet and brushes off the worst of it, then she makes a beeline back to the gunsmith. The friendly salesman with the German accent is sadly nowhere to be seen and this new fellow she does not like one bit. The sight of her mud-covered figure prompts him to deliver a peculiar combination of words not meant for anyone at school-age or below.</p><p>“I know damn well I’m covered in mud, ya fool. That’s why I’m here. I need a bath.”</p><p>In his eyes burns brightly the urge to tell her to sod off but the urge to ern a coin or thee burns stronger yet. “Building on the right, though there is an extra fee, for dirtyin’ up my floor.”</p><p>She is too cold, too disillusioned, too absorbed with self-wrath to protest. The warm bath is most welcome. She greets the maid entering to pick up her clothes for cleaning while politely declining further service. Twenty minutes later, her clothes are returned and yes, the water is still hot and no, she still doesn’t need further assistance but thank you kindly.</p><p>Alone again, she rests her head on the bathtub, enjoying the comfort of a rare hot bath for just a few more minutes. Once she gets home, she will surely- what was that?</p><p>Voices. From the corridor.</p><p>“I said, no thank you! I’ll manage.”</p><p>No answer. The maid outside must have been speaking to a guest, or a client. She finishes her bath, gets dressed and leaves the damp room before her clothes can become clammy against her skin.</p><p>Upon entering the hallway, she finds it empty. Strange, she could’ve sworn she heard footsteps just half a heartbeat before she opened the door. Before that thought even has time to materialize that someone might be lurking behind the opened door, something hard with an awful taste of leather clasps over her mouth. She turns or rather, is forcefully turned around.</p><p>And there he is.</p><p>The man that’s been stalking her all day.</p><p>“Don’t even think ‘bout making a scene. I’ve made sure no one’s comin’ through here. Not in a good while. This’ just you’n me, lady.”</p><p>The gloved hand is still clamped over her mouth. The other hand locks around her throat and pins her against the wall. Not so hard as to be painful yet hard enough to let her know she is trapped – outmaneuvered, outsmarted, beaten... and no contender for him. A cloth covers his mouth and nose and the brim of his hat covers the rest but a pair of eyes the color of ocean. A gravel voice hisses into her hear, husky and low. As if its owner has just downed a shot of whiskey or five to soothe a sore throat three week strong.</p><p>“Why’re you askin‘ folk ‘bout me?”</p><p>The skin at the nape of her neck prickles. The posture. The black hat. <em>That voice.</em> The pressure against her throat intensifies.</p><p>“I said, why’re-”</p><p>He cuts his sentence short. The pressure against her larynx fades. He has recognized her too.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Proposition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The recently forgoing stranglehold prompts forth a series of violent coughs. By instinct, her hand flies to her burning throat.</p><p>“Nice to see you, Arthur,” she sneers.</p><p>He pulls the bandana from his face. “Never thought I’d see you again, ma’am. But why’re you askin’ folks ‘bout me?”</p><p>It really is him – in the flesh. Not the proverbial figment of her imagination in the form of a nightly, erotic dream or a daytime amorous reverie. Lordy no, this time he’s as real as the air rushing to her lungs. Her heart is racing and not just from the ghastly rush of terror a mere moment ago. The reality of what she is pursuing is dawning on her and yet, she be darned if she is to back out now.</p><p>“I have a proposition for you.”</p><p>He straightens and takes a step back – away from her, towards the door behind him. Glimmers of blue assess her through tapered lids, telltale of strained reserve. Yet – he stays.</p><p>“I ain’t here to send the law or some bounty hunter on you, if that’s what you think.”</p><p>He is not convinced.</p><p>“I swear I ain’t. You did right by me that night – eventually, and I-”</p><p>“Then we’ve got nothin’ to talk about.”</p><p>“At least let me buy you a beer and listen to what I have to say.”</p><p>Though his posture seems to ease, the suspicion in his eyes does not fade an ounce. He glares at her with a mixture of disbelief and interest, guarded interest yet interest nonetheless and though far from swayed, curiosity triumphs caution. They return to Bierhalle, walking side by side but not shoulder by shoulder. Yes, that was indeed him in the corner earlier – and on the street. They arrive at the tavern with the difficult-to-pronounce name without incident or impediment, where she buys two beers and guides him to a table in a quiet corner free of eavesdroppers. He sits, following a fleeting hesitance. A lame attempt at small talk soon falls short as the outlaw is perfectly aware, she has not gone through all this effort just to ask how he’s doing and what he’s been up to lately.</p><p>Under any other circumstance, she would not so easily forgive his incivility, as is her nature to return amicability with amicability, cordiality with cordiality, unjust with unjust, and so forth. In this case, however, she is well aware of it being born out of apprehensiveness and distrust, in which case, manners and civility can't be expected from anyone and least of all of her, lest she'd be a hypocrite. </p><p>“I-I, um-”</p><p>“Now you gotten shy?” He chuckles at her sudden bashfulness, a strange contrast to her brazen, unabashed conduct and wanton deeds the night they first met. For the untrained or unobservant eye, he is perfectly at ease. His voice might be calm, soothing even. Yet his gaze, whilst not directly conveying distrust, exudes a keen, penetrating sharpness denoting shrewd assessment. His jaw has taken on a feigned slackness yet remains clenched enough to keep his lips taut. He takes a swig of the amber liquid, ensuing an encounter of flask and tabletop just a teensy too loud, leading her to conclude that the apparent ease of demeanor and manner is but an affected one. His shoulders are just a tad too high to be deemed <em>at ease </em>and the swift movement in which he’d handled the bottle all suggest a spirit not entirely at ease, though he is doing eons better than her, that much is sure.</p><p>Her complexion is glowing, her features are for want of affected coolness and she averts her eye. Her heart is fiercely pounding. From exhilaration. Embarrassment. Anticipation. Fear?</p><p>Fear.</p><p>Of being rejected. Ridiculed. Hurt. Or worse... Fear that she has misjudged him and by effect, the likely consequence of willfully putting herself in heedless peril of being alone with a dour, not to mention dangerous outlaw with the preposterous intent of engaging in debaucheries of the most licentious kind to assuage a capricious fancy for wanton lust – and for want of having formed a proper acquaintance at that (not that she’d paid much, or any heed to <em>that</em> particular the first time they met either), all while ignoring judiciousness and good sense. Fear that she will not, in fact, find herself alone with said outlaw and has to acknowledge that which now still can be – won’t. Ever.</p><p>Though her fear is flagrant and her sense most present, neither are contenders for her want. Her desires may be an aberration but it is an aberration demanding her every attention.</p><p>Does she approve of the doings or injurious way of life hallmark of outlaws and bandits? No, not even the slightest. Does she wish to be had, <em>used</em>, carnally owned and<em>,</em> consequently, gratified by one exquisitely handsome, bona fide bandit with dazzling blues and a physique that is nothing short of divine, with his own sense of honor complemented by internal doubts apropos the abovementioned vices gnawing his very soul on account of a deep-down compassionate heart? Oh yes, does she ever. Dressed in black head-to-toe, complete with a broad-brimmed, tattered gambler hat, a revolver dangling at the side of his hip, a bandana draped over his nose, pinning her down – <em>oh my</em>!</p><p>Gazing up at said bandit staring down at her, a pair of brilliant blues exuding power, authority and control, counterpoised with a burning hunger of anticipation and want as he spreads her legs wide with one brushing swoop of his index against her naked skin, all while slowly unbuttoning his trousers with his other hand, taking out his  – <em>oh, yes!</em></p><p>“Lady, you still with me?”</p><p>And with that, she has discovered her venereal fancy, as it shows in her complexion and mien.</p><p>“I-I wanted to speak to you, because-” the bottle spins in her hand. Her cheeks are ablaze – and not just on account of self-consciousness and embarrassment. Even when she saw the chance of this meeting happening as thinner than a newborn’s eyelash she would piously rehearse this very conversation about to ensue again and again, yet, as she now has learned, it’s so easy to say what’s on your heart and mind when all is playing out safely in one’s head, where one has the benefit of being both the scriptwriter and the director.</p><p>“After we- after that night I, um, I ain’t – like that, though you surely don’t believe me. Then again, I never had a gun aimed at me before. Alone, in the midst of the night. In Brood country, at that.”</p><p>“No need to apologize, miss. I ain’t mad at ya.”</p><p>“Apologize?! You’re the one who had a gun pointed at my chest! And you got the nerve to tell me-”</p><p>He seems entirely unimpressed by her exclamation. The ensuing sentence has her cooking a faint half-grin, though not without a flare of shame. “T’was predatory, I suppose.”</p><p>“Who? You or me?”</p><p>Her gaze shoots up, meeting his. “Both,” she relays in a tone far more appeasing.</p><p>The response has him returning her grin but his eyes remain an enigma. Never before has the desire to be a mind-reader been as raving as right now. She studies him like a hawk in an attempt to discern even the most ephemeral glimmer of animation in the part of a person said to be the mirror of the soul, seeing, to her dismay, no luster of jest, no notion of amity nor a whisper of concupiscence, however, despite the initial flare of petulant indignance, she acknowledges with a surge of relief that there is no discerning trace of animosity, grievance or any other form of acrimony neither.</p><p>“I acted in the heat of the moment, my words and decisions decided by anger, fear and indignance due to a most just sense of having been wronged, though I know all too well two wrongs don’t make one right.” Her head droops in shame. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have forced mys– done what I did.”</p><p>“Forced? Ma’am, you tie a pretty decent knot but if I had really wanted to, I could’ve easily broken free of that squeaky chair you tied me to. We wronged each other, we helped one another. In the end, we did right by each other.” In one swallow, he downs the remainder of his drink when hers is still three quarters full. “So, we good?”</p><p>“NO, WAIT-”</p><p>She near shouts. With an outstretched hand, she interrupts him before he can nudge his hat and bid her goodbye. Through tapered lids he eyes her, then the clientele, then back at her, suspicion rousing anew. Her fanned-out fingers change into an open palm. “Please, sit.”</p><p>His gaze wanders the room, resting on each and every patron for a heartbeat longer than what is considered proper decorum.</p><p>Okay, here goes.</p><p>“About a fortnight after that – night we met; I had a dream.”</p><p>To her surprise, he does sit without further ado and this time, she <em>does</em> notice the ephemeral flicker ghosting over his eyes – a mirror of that which had sent her on this treacherous quest. Perchance he’s been secretly desiring a rendezvous too. It gives her a much-needed surge of confidence and before the thought has time to sneak in, that she might be mistaken, she speak again.</p><p>“I dreamt that-” She becomes acutely aware; she is avoiding his eye entirely and she forces herself to lock her gaze with his. When disregarding not only proper decorum but sense as well, good, common and otherwise, bashfulness is a luxury with far too high of a cost. “You came to my house.”</p><p>She goes silent. With an incisive eye, she seeks in his features for that which his lips won’t share but alas, his guise is as blank as that of a practiced gambler and what an exceptional poker face he has. There is no way to tell whether he is holding aces or twos. If he is curious, puzzled, or bored. But he makes no attempt at walking away so that’s good, at least.</p><p>“It wasn’t really my-never mind, you came to my house, the house where I lived in my dream, and...” – deep breath – “...you took advantage of me.”</p><p>An ephemeral, lustrous spark discloses feigned disinterest. His lips part. Slightly, but discernible. And <em>slightly but discernible</em> will do just fine. “You had your way with me,” she adds, albeit redundantly. “Very dominantly, insistently and assertively so. And it felt good. Real good. When I woke up I-”</p><p>“Why’re you telling me this?”</p><p>“I-, erm, I can’t get that dream out of my head.”</p><p>“And what’s that got to do with me?”</p><p>She raises a brow. “You really need to ask?”</p><p>The pithy retort, in disguise as a rhetorical question has him lowering his head, hiding under the brim of his hat all of his face but a half-cooked smirk that most certainly is an impromptu one. He grabs the bottle and realizes half a second later it’s empty, upon which he begins hustling the poor flask as if unsure of what to do with it – movements and actions born from a scatterbrained mind. She suppresses a self-satisfactory grin. The terse, seemingly unmoved, morose brigand’s aces of two has been beaten by pairs of twos and threes.</p><p>
  <em>Not so blasé anymore, eh, mister Morgan?</em>
</p><p>“Y’know, some dreams... are better off staying as dreams.”</p><p>“That might be, but I didn’t cross two states just to be told what I have already carefully considered.”</p><p>“Then you ain’t been thinkin’ careful enough. I’m a bad man. You don’t wanna-”</p><p>“Is that a threat, a warning, or a promise?”</p><p>The flare of vexation distorting his face has her drawing a sharp breath, prompting forth a sense of warped entrails in her stomach beseeching her to apologize for taking up his time, excuse herself and get the hell out and far, far away from here. Surely he must now think of her as the most prurient being that ever walked the face of this earth. Yet for all his forewarnings and hesitance, he is still here, next to her, his arms open before her, his body language not on par with his words.</p><p>“I ain’t no doting Juliet, Arthur. You should already know that. If it’s the wellbeing of my heart you’re hinting at, that’s entirely my concern, not yours.”</p><p>“I wasn’t. But I ain't the kind a feller to leave behind a young maiden with a broken heart, neither.”</p><p>“No, you just rather put a bullet through it.”</p><p>He shoots her a piercing glare of grievance and acrimony. Unspoken protests and apologies reverberate in the air between them, neither of which is voiced.</p><p>How she has mortified and dishonored herself, not only by voicing her innermost desire but by which she’d kept entreating, fundamentally pleading, then inadvertently insulted him–</p><p><em>– and so what if I have? </em>she reassures herself, her cheeks no less ablaze. <em>He’s done far worse. He started it by pointing that damn gun–</em></p><p>With the aid of communicative eyes and gesturing fingers she assents to him finishing her bottle beer and after one swift swig he unexpectedly relays, “All right.”</p><p>Her head snaps up. With the unfortunate turn of the afore conversation the sudden agreement, to what exactly she isn’t sure, is most unexpected and all the more welcome. His watchful eye is still watching the room, still considering the possibility this is all a trap, deciding to trust her – no, to play along – for now. It is her turn to trust <em>him</em>.</p><p>“Follow me.”</p><p>~*~</p><p>Not even ten minutes later, they’re in a room that charges by the hour. A plain, sparingly furnished room with a fairly large bed and white, thick curtains embellished by miniscule pearls and knitted flowers. Perfect to drape over the windows.</p><p>“Tell me more ‘bout that dream of yours.”</p><p>She paces the room, coming to a halt by the window where she starts manhandling the fabric of the curtain. “It was dark and stormy outside. I walked around the living room in my nightgown with a gun and a lantern, why I don’t know. I heard a sound and when I turned you was there, only I didn’t know it was you. Not right away. Then I...”</p><p>She relays what had occurred that boisterous night, vaguely at first but with mounting courage, she gives more details, including those added on later as part of her erotic reveries, although fully explicit she cannot bring herself to be. Once she is finished, she is surprised the curtain hasn’t fallen to the floor. Arthur, who has been listening in silence, now takes a second to assemble his thoughts. Then he replies, “Now I can’t promise you a storm – but I’ll help you live out that dream of yours, if you help me live out <em>mine</em>.”</p><p>“And what would that be?”</p><p>“Exactly what you did the night we first met.”</p><p>Her heart pounds against her ribs and the growing heat between her legs is now rabidly pulsing with want. She was certainly not expecting that.</p><p>“You want me to re-enact the night we met?! Minus the bear, I suppose.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he affirms with the utmost sincere. “Knife, taunts, that thing you did with your hand...” The circling motion he does near his crotch has her moving her hand to her mouth to conceal a titter. She’s gonna give him one helluva show, all right. “And this time, don’t hold back. Go at it <em>real </em>rough.”</p><p>She quizzes a brow. “I held back?”</p><p>A self-conscious chuckle ensues though with his arms firmly placed at his hips and his elbows jutting out at each side his posture speaks of confidence. “Oh, I know you can do better.”</p><p>He draws out the <em>Oh!</em> sound to pursed lips – lips oh-so-plump to the sparkiest, most breathtaking of blues the world ever beheld, and by the means of which those blues penetrate her very soul sets ablaze a want of penetration of a different, far more tangible kind, pun intended. Incredulity and exhilarated relief rush through her, combined with a salacious urge to undress him <em>right</em> now.</p><p>“You really trust me enough for that?” she asks with affected indifference, as her hand hastily runs through her hair.</p><p>“No! Which is why I’ll decide time and place.”</p><p>She agrees to the proviso and is about to call first but then comes to realize she doesn’t much care for the order of events. She will have him twice! Both as the authoritarian <em>and</em> as the compliant. Equal, just, <em>erotic</em>... <em>Ah,</em> the thrill! Arthur watches her with a gimlet eye thought not without a luster of impish mischievousness – and a come-hither air of posture and countenance. She makes her first eager step towards the object of her desire, equally willing to give as much as to receive.</p><p>It was a ruse.</p><p>As soon as she is close enough Arthur grabs a hold of her, spins her around, pins her against the wall and closes his hand around her throat anew, beneath the jaw, hard enough to serve as an efficacious warning, not so hard as to be painful. It’s a déjà vu simultaneously welcome and unwelcome.</p><p>“If yer tryin’ to play me for a fool...”</p><p><em>There ain’t no fool here but me</em>, rushes through her head and to her folly she easily succumbs.</p><p>“No, sir. No trick.”</p><p> “I see any bounty hunter or lawman anywhere near...”</p><p>“In which case, they’ve not been sent by me,” she interjects. “I’m much too straightforward a person to put forth a scheme, demanding such guile and deceit, with success.”</p><p>He stands still, dissecting her features with his eye as he weighs the honestly of her words against the unvarnished luster of want in her gaze and her half-puckered, slightly parted lips, so ready to meet his. He leans in – <em>so</em> <em>close</em>, his mouth a mere whisper from hers. Is this another test? It sure feels like it. Then again, why go through all this trouble, taking such a risk, unless... – unless he is as starved for her as she is for him. She draws a shivering lungful of air as she impromptu, then willfully, grinds her entire self against him. A deliberate gasp escapes her parted lips, eager to coax from him a response, yet he remains stoic, stance and mien. The blasé indifference could have easily fooled her had it not been for a deep, near panting breath, which in any other circumstance she would have interpreted as rage. His posture is taut, his stare icy and hard and she catches herself wondering, if something else might be hard too.</p><p>He tightens his clutch and with lips oh-so-achingly-close he instructs, “Not here. Rent a room at Emerald Ranch tomorrow night. Tell’em yer visiting a friend. Then you wait.”</p><p>And out the door he goes, leaving her pining – and for want of a fresh set of underwear.</p>
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